Surprise Me

TWELVE

It’s all pretty tough. And it hasn’t got any easier.

It’s the following Tuesday and the most positive development in my life right now is the ‘Willoughby House Museum’ sign, which arrived yesterday, and is gorgeous. Far better than we expected. We all keep going outside to gaze adoringly at it, and the volunteers are convinced it’s bringing in more visitors already, and even Robert gave a kind-of-impressed grunt when he saw it.

But at home, forget it. I’m not sure who’s most stressed out right now, me or Dan. He’s permanently taut, stroppy, tentery and generally hard to live with. When his phone rings, he grabs for it so fast it makes me wince. I’ve got home twice to find him striding around the kitchen having intense phone conversations which he immediately breaks off from. And when I ask, ‘What was that?’ he replies, ‘Nothing,’ in discouraging tones, as though I’m somehow trespassing on his privacy. Whereupon I feel such a surge of frusture that I want to hit something.

I feel as if I don’t know anything any more. I don’t know what Dan’s thinking; I don’t know what he wants; I still don’t know what this ‘million pounds, maybe two’ is. I don’t know why he’s been huddling with my mother. If it was to arrange a surprise, then where is that surprise?

I used to think our marriage was a solid entity. Firm and dense, with maybe just the odd little fault line. But are those fault lines bigger than I thought? Are they chasms? And if so, why can’t I see them?

Sometimes, honestly and truly, I feel like a colour-blind person. It’s as if everyone else can see something I can’t. Even Mummy. Sometimes she takes a breath to speak, then stops herself and says, ‘Oh, I’ve lost my train of thought,’ in an unconvincing way, and her eyes slide away from mine and I think, What? What?

On the other hand, I may be being paranoid. It’s possible.

I could really do with a sensible friend to talk to, but the only person who knows all the ins and outs is Tilda, and she’s still commuting to Andover. Yesterday I felt so desperate, I found myself googling How to keep your husband, and the answer that came back was essentially: You can’t. If he wants to leave you, he will. (I hate the internet.)

The infamous dinner party is tonight, and Dan is totally obsessed – about the food, the wine, even the coffee cups. (When has he ever taken any notice of coffee cups?)

Meanwhile, I’m ratty and snappy and dying for the whole thing to be over. I keep telling myself: It can’t be that bad. Then: Yes it can. And then: Actually it can be worse. (I’m not sure what worse might consist of, but it won’t be good, surely?)

Dan’s picked up on my tension; how could he not? Although – silver lining – I’ve blamed it on my problems at work, which are still massive, despite the sign. My non-existent website budget is still non-existent. I’ve made approaches to every single supporter, patron and philanthropist I can think of. But so far we’ve received nothing except a hundred pounds in cash pushed anonymously through the letter box in an envelope (I totally suspect Mrs Kendrick) and a big crate of Fortnum’s biscuits. One of our volunteers apparently ‘pulled some strings’. (Robert’s face when he saw them was quite funny; in fact it’s the only thing I’ve laughed at for ages.)

And now I’ve got to get ready to confront my nemesis over Ottolenghi slow-cooked lamb.

No. I don’t have any proof she’s my nemesis. I have to remember this.

As I enter the kitchen, I’m wearing my most casually elegant outfit – slim white trousers and a print top with a flash of cleavage – and wafting perfume. I’m hoping Dan will turn from the stove and his eyes will light up and maybe we’ll sink into each other’s arms in a bonding, imprinting way which will inoculate him against Mary.

But he’s not by the stove. I can see him through the window, out in the garden, picking some mint from our straggly bush which grows by one of the Wendy houses. (I do know mint. Mint and rosemary. Any other herbs, forget it: I’d need to see them in a Tesco packet to identify them.)

I head through the back door and make my way over our crappy grass, picking my brains for something to say. As I reach him, I blurt out, ‘Mint is lovely, isn’t it?’

Which is such a bland comment I instantly regret it – but then, I’m not sure Dan even heard. He’s rubbing a mint leaf in his fingers and his eyes have got that faraway look again. Where is he now? Back in his youth? With her?

And yet again, I feel a stab of anxiety. OK, I have no proof of anything, but that’s not the point. The point is, Dan is vulnerable. I believe it more than ever. Something happened in that garden. Something was stirred up in him. And now this woman is going to arrive (and if she’s anything like she looks in her photo, will still be totally gorgeous) and remind him of how it all used to be before marriage and kids and stretch marks. (I mean, she might have stretch marks. But I doubt it.)

I help Dan gather some more mint and we head back inside, and somehow I keep making innocuous conversation – but my mind is whirring.

‘So, tell me about your friends,’ I say as he washes the mint. ‘Tell me about …’ I make a heroic effort to sound casual. ‘… Mary.’

‘Well, I haven’t seen Jeremy or Adrian for years,’ Dan says, and my brain gives a squeal of frustration.

I don’t want to know about bloody Jeremy or Adrian, didn’t you hear me say Mary? Mary?

‘Jeremy’s in tax law, as far as I know,’ Dan continues, ‘and Adrian’s in teaching, I think, but it wasn’t clear on LinkedIn …’

My brain tunes out as he tells me all about Jeremy and Adrian and how much fun they used to be and the walk they once did in the Brecon Beacons.

‘And Mary?’ I say, as soon as I get a chance. ‘What’s she like? Do I need to be worried? Old girlfriend and all that? Ha ha!’ I try, unsuccessfully, to give an airy, natural laugh.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snaps Dan, and there’s a defensive flare to his voice that makes me stare at him in sudden, genuine fear. He clearly realizes that he’s overreacted, because the next moment he’s looking up from his mint and smiling like any loving husband would and saying, ‘I don’t worry about you seeing Nick Reese every day, do I?’

I keep on smiling, but inside I’m seething. Nick Reese is a totally different case. Yes, he is my ex-boyfriend and yes, I run into him a fair amount but that’s because he has a daughter in the girls’ class at school. I run into him at school events, because I have to. Not because I’ve invited him to my house for a special Ottolenghi dinner and taken special care over my outfit. (Yes, I have noticed that Dan’s wearing his nicest, most flattering shirt. I have noticed.)

I shrug casually. ‘I just wondered what she was like.’

‘Oh, she’s …’ Dan pauses and his eyes become distant. ‘She’s a life-enhancer. She’s wise. Calm. Some people just have that quality, you know? A kind of goodness. A kind of down-to-earth … soothing … She’s like a tranquil lake.’

I stare at him, stricken. Mary’s a tranquil lake. Whereas I’m what? Some burbling, frantic river with white-water rapids round every corner?

Is he simply tired of me? Does he want a lake, not a river? Is that the massive great chasm in our marriage that I can’t see? Tears suddenly prick my eyes and I look away. I have to get a grip. What would Tilda say? She’d say, ‘Stop overthinking, you silly idiot, and have a glass of wine.’

‘I’m having a glass of wine,’ I say, opening the fridge. ‘You want one?’

‘I’ll just finish this mint,’ says Dan, glancing at his watch. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

I pour myself a glass of Sauvignon and check the table, trying to calm myself down. And as I walk round, straightening napkins that didn’t need to be straightened, something new occurs to me. I’ve been focusing entirely on him. What about her? From her photo, she looks like a good person. She looks like a person who wouldn’t steal her friend’s husband. So maybe my best bet is to become her friend. Bond with her. Show her that I’m a really nice person. Show her that even if Dan says, ‘My wife doesn’t understand me’ – which, to be fair, sometimes I don’t – I’m still doing my best.

(I mean, he is quite hard to understand, in my defence. That mania he has for turning radiators down: I will never get that.)

I’m just telling myself that this is a good strategy and there’s no need to be anxious when the doorbell rings and I start so hard, my Sauvignon nearly spills out of my glass.

‘She’s here!’ I say shrilly. ‘I mean … they’re here. Someone’s here.’

Dan goes to get the front door and I soon hear the boom of cheery male voices from the hall.

‘Adrian! Jeremy! Long time! Come on in!’ Dan is saying, and my heart unclenches a little. It’s not her. Not yet.

I look up with a smile as Adrian and Jeremy appear – both standard-issue nice guys with stubbly beards. Adrian has glasses, Jeremy has red suede shoes, and apart from that I can’t really tell the difference. Dan pours drinks and hands round crisps while I half listen to their conversation, which is all about people I’ve never even heard of … and then they’re on to Mary.

‘She works for an environmental consultancy?’ Adrian is saying. ‘That makes sense.’

‘I can’t think how we all lost touch.’ Dan shakes his head. ‘Have you been back to the garden?’

Jeremy nods. ‘A few times. You know—’ He breaks off as the doorbell rings and I swear a frisson runs through every one of us. It’s her. It’s Mary.

‘Right!’ says Dan, and I can tell he’s keyed up, from his voice. ‘Well, that must be her. I’ll just go and …’

Is he deliberately avoiding my eye as he heads out to the hall? I can’t tell. I top up everyone’s glass with wine and especially my own. I think we’re going to need it.

And then suddenly there she is, coming into the kitchen with Dan, and my heart plummets. She’s a vision, an absolute vision, taller than I expected, all cloudy dark hair and kind eyes and those amazing dimples.

‘Hello,’ she says with a radiant smile, and extends a hand. ‘Sylvie? I’m Mary.’

I blink at her, feeling overwhelmed. She’s gorgeous. She really does look like an angel. An angel in a white shirt with an oversized collar, and soft linen trousers.

‘Hi.’ I clasp her hand and shake it. ‘Yes. I’m Dan’s wife.’

‘You’re so sweet to have us all over,’ says Mary, then adds to Dan, ‘Oh, white wine, please. What a treat. Jeremy, Adrian, you both look wonderful.’

She has that gift of putting people at their ease, I instantly realize. I glance downwards and see that she’s wearing amazing grey leather pumps, which manage to look fashionable and ethical and expensive but non-showy, all at the same time.

I’m in the sling-back kitten heels I always wear for supper parties. I liked them ten minutes ago, but now they suddenly seem really obvious and inferior.

‘I love your kitchen,’ says Mary in a soft voice. ‘It has a wonderful family atmosphere. And that blue is stunning. Did you choose that?’

She has the most soothing voice. She really is a tranquil lake. Oh God, I think I have a crush on this woman, never mind Dan.

‘We tried loads of different blues before we got it right,’ I say, and her face breaks into another dimpled smile.

‘I can imagine. And look at your garden. Those adorable Wendy houses!’

She heads towards the back door to peer out and I’m struck by her supple walk. She’s not skinny, but she possesses her body perfectly. I can just imagine her aged nineteen, her pre-Raphaelite hair around her shoulders, her skin pale and perfect …

No. Stop it. I need to bond with her. I’ll talk about gardening.

‘Come out and see!’ I say, opening the back door and ushering her out on to the tiny patio. ‘I mean, we don’t do much with it … Do you have a boyfriend?’

Oh God. That just popped out before I could stop it. Did that sound unnatural?

No. It’s fine. It’s a normal question. It’s what you do when you meet people. You ask them about themselves.

‘No.’ Mary’s face twists into a rueful expression and she wanders over to look at our sole tree, a silver birch. ‘Not for a while.’

‘Ah.’ I try to sound understanding, like a member of the sisterhood, not like the suspicious wife who’s mentally logging no boyfriend.

‘Men can let you down so badly,’ Mary continues in her melodious voice. ‘Or maybe it’s just the men I’ve come across. They seem to have an extra capacity for deceit. This is lovely,’ she adds, stroking the tree.

She has picked the one thing in our garden you could describe as lovely.

‘And yarrow!’ she exclaims, reaching for some nondescript plant I’ve never even noticed. ‘Gorgeous. So healing. Do you ever use it in your bath?’

‘Er … no,’ I admit. Use that scraggy plant in my bath?

‘Never let anyone tell you that it’s a weed. You can make a wonderful tincture with the flowers. It helps with sleep … fevers … everything.’ She looks up, her eyes shining, and I stare back, slightly mesmerized. ‘It’s one of my passions, natural healing. And energy healing.’

‘Energy healing?’

‘Using the body’s own energy to rebalance.’ Mary gives me her beatific smile again. ‘I’m only a beginner, but I believe passionately in the mind–body connection. In the flow.’ She gestures down her body in one beautiful movement.

‘Here you are!’ Dan’s voice interrupts us and we both turn to see him stepping out of the back door. ‘What are you two gossiping about?’

He sounds self-conscious, I instantly register. Too hearty.

‘Sylvie was asking me about my love life,’ says Mary with that same rueful expression, and I see Dan’s gaze dart to me sharply.

Great. So now it looks like I’ve led Mary outside, away from the group, to demand if she’s single.

Which is totally not what I did.

I mean it’s not what I meant to do. It just came up.

‘I wasn’t!’ I say a little shrilly. ‘I mean … who cares about that?’ I attempt a laugh, which doesn’t quite come off. ‘Anyway, tell Dan about your natural healing, Mary! It sounds amazing!’

OK. So I’m being a bit Machiavellian here. If I had to vote for Person Least Into Alternative Medicine, it would be Dan, by a million miles. His view on medicine is basically: take paracetamol and see your GP if you really must. He doesn’t take vitamins, he doesn’t meditate and he thinks homeopathy is a massive con-trick.

So what I’m hoping as we sit down to dinner is that as Mary talks about ‘mind–body flow’ and ‘clearing energy blockages’, Dan will adopt his usual cynical stance and the two will end up arguing. Or at least disagreeing. (Dream scenario: Mary stomping out of the house, shouting, ‘How dare you say reiki is all a load of bollocks!’)

But it doesn’t happen like that. As Dan doles out the lamb, Mary tells us about her healing in such an intelligent, compelling way that we all listen, riveted. She sounds like a Shakespearean actress. She even looks like one. I start to think maybe there is something in healing after all, and even Dan seems quite open-minded. Then she moves on to yoga and teaches us all a shoulder stretch at the table. And then she tells funny stories about going on a herbalism course and making some kind of beech-leaf liqueur and everyone getting totally drunk.

She’s not just angelic, she’s sassy. She exudes positive energy. Everyone is charmed. I’m charmed. I want her to be my friend.

As the evening progresses, I find myself relaxing. My fears seem to float away. There’s no special vibe between her and Dan that I can make out. Dan has relaxed too, and he seems just as interested in catching up with Jeremy and Adrian as he does in Mary. By the time we’re on to the Green & Black’s chocolates, I’m thinking: We must do this again, and: What nice new friends, and: I’ll ask Mary where she got those grey pumps.

I’m just pouring out fresh mint tea when I realize that a shrill voice is calling for me: ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ and excuse myself. I find Anna standing on the stairs, clutching the banisters, her face wet with tears, telling me, ‘It was coming after me, it was coming, it was coming.’

Poor Anna. She always takes ages to calm after a nightmare, and so I settle down to a good twenty minutes of sitting on her bed, soothing, patting, singing and talking in a low voice. She seems to drift off, then opens her eyes in panic and searches for me … then drifts off again … then opens her eyes again … and I just sit there, patiently, waiting. And at last she’s truly asleep, her breaths coming deeply, her fingers still clutching the edge of her duvet.

I feel tempted to climb in with her. I’m suddenly quite shattered. But after all, we still have guests and those Green & Black’s chocolates won’t hand themselves round. So at last I get to my feet and head out of her room … and freeze dead. From where I’m standing on the landing, I have a view into the mirror in the hall, and in that mirror I can see the sitting room reflected.

And in the sitting room are Dan and Mary. Just them.

They must have no idea I can see them; that anyone can see them. They’re alone and standing close together. Mary’s listening to Dan, her head tilted with an intent, understanding expression. He’s talking softly to her – so softly, I can’t hear his actual words. I can pick up on the vibe between them, though. It’s a vibe of closeness. Of familiarity. Of everything I was afraid of.

For a few moments I’m motionless, my thoughts lurching this way and that. I want to confront them. No, I can’t face confronting them. I might be wrong. Wrong about what, anyway? What do I imagine is happening? Might they not just be two old friends sharing a moment?

But why hide away from everyone?

A burst of male laughter from the kitchen brings me to, and automatically I start walking forward. I can’t stay upstairs forever. As I head downstairs, the stairs creak, and at once Dan appears at the sitting-room door.

‘Sylvie!’ he exclaims, too loudly. ‘I was just showing Mary …’ He trails off as though unable to think of a convincing story. Then Mary appears in the doorway – and the look she gives me makes me feel chilled. It’s unmistakable. It’s a look of pity.

For a moment our eyes are locked and I swallow, my throat tight, unable to speak.

‘Actually, I must be going,’ says Mary in that soft voice.

‘Already?’ says Dan, but he doesn’t sound too sorry, and as we head back into the kitchen, the other two are also standing up, talking about tubes and Ubers and thanking us for a wonderful time.

This evening has got away from me. I want it to slow down. Press pause. I need to gather my thoughts. But before I have a chance to, we’re in the hall, finding everyone’s coats and exchanging kisses. Mary won’t look me in the eye. I’m desperate to pull her aside and ask, ‘What were you talking to Dan about just now?’ And ‘Why did you two go off like that?’ But I’m not brave enough.

Am I?

‘Mummy! I woked up!’

Tessa’s shrill voice interrupts my thoughts and my heart sinks.

‘Tessa! Not you too!’

I hurry upstairs instinctively, scooping her back before she decides to join in the party. Children being out of bed is like the five-second rule – you have to be swift. I bundle her back into bed and sit there until she’s closed her eyes, listening to all the final goodbyes below in the hall and the front door closing. When Tessa is gently snoring, I creep back out on to the landing. And I’m about to head downstairs, when something stops me. Something hard and splintery and suspicious. Instead, I move silently into the bathroom which overlooks the front of the house and peep out. Dan and Mary are on the pavement, talking, just the two of them.

How did I know they would be there?

I just knew.

There’s a horrible squeezing feeling in my chest as I crouch down by the window and silently open it a crack. Mary has wrapped herself up in a pashmina and her face under the streetlight is wreathed with concern.

I lean my head against the windowsill, trying desperately to pick up scraps of conversation.

‘Now you understand,’ Dan is saying in a low voice. ‘I just feel … pinned in a corner.’

My throat tightens in shock. Pinned in a corner? He feels pinned in a corner?

‘Yes. I get it,’ Mary is saying. ‘I do. I just …’

Their voices descend lower, and I can only pick out the odd word. ‘… talk …’

‘… find out …’

‘… she won’t …’

‘… be careful …’

My heart is thudding as I peep out of the window again to see that Mary is clasping Dan in a hug. A tight hug. A passionate hug.

I sink back on my heels. I feel faint. Dark shapes are scudding across my brain. Am I the ultimate, trusting fool? Were the pair of them playing me all evening? I’m rerunning Mary’s friendly, charming air. Her soft voice. The hand she kept putting on my arm. Was it all an act? ‘Men … seem to have an extra capacity for deceit,’ she said – and now I remember the look she gave me. Was that a hint? A warning?

I hear the front door closing and hastily come out of the bathroom to see Dan in the hall, staring up at me. There are shadows on his face and I can’t read his expression and all I can think is: He feels pinned in a corner.

‘You go to bed,’ he says. ‘I’ll just stack a few plates. We can do the rest tomorrow.’

Normally I’d say, ‘Don’t be silly, I’ll help!’ and we’d clear away companionably and pick over the evening and start laughing over something or other.

Not tonight.

I get ready for bed, feeling a bit numb, and I’m still lying there, totally rigid, wondering what on earth I do next, how on earth I proceed … when Dan finally gets in beside me.

‘Well, that went well,’ he says.

‘Yes.’ Somehow I manage to speak. ‘The lamb was delicious.’

‘They’re a fun crowd.’

‘Yes.’

There’s another long, weird silence, then Dan suddenly says, ‘Oh. I need to send an email. Sorry.’

He gets out of bed and pads out of the room in his bare feet. And for ten seconds I lie still, my mind trying to self-soothe. Dan is always sending emails. He’s always getting out of bed with some sudden late-night thought. He’s a busy man. It doesn’t mean anything. It really doesn’t mean anything …

But I can’t help it. My suspicion is like a desperate hunger; I have to obey it. Without making a sound, I swing my legs round, stand up and move silently to the door of our bedroom. The door of Dan’s study is open and the light is on. I lean forward noiselessly until I glimpse him, and feel another profound shock.

He’s standing in his study, tapping away on a phone I’ve never seen before. A Samsung. What’s that phone? Why does he need two phones? As I watch, he drops it into a drawer and locks it with a little key. It’s on the same key ring as his house keys. I never even knew he had that little key. I didn’t know he kept a drawer of his desk locked.

Why does he need to lock a drawer? What’s he hiding from me? What?

For a few moments, we’re both motionless. Dan seems transfixed by his thoughts. I’m transfixed by Dan. Then he suddenly turns and in fright I leap backwards, skittering silently away. I’m back in bed within ten seconds, the duvet pulled right over me, my heart banging furiously.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask as he gets back into bed.

‘Oh, fine.’

And I don’t know if it’s my desperate optimism surfacing, or my belief in giving everyone a fair chance, but I can’t rest until I’ve given him an opportunity to make this all OK again.

‘Dan, listen.’ I prod his shoulder until he turns, his face all tired and ready-for-sleepish. ‘Seriously. Is everything all right? Please. You look so stressed. If there’s anything, anything wrong … or worrying you … I mean, you would tell me, wouldn’t you? You’re not ill, are you?’ I say with a sudden gasp of horror. ‘Because if you were …’ Tears have started to my eyes. For God’s sake. I’m a nervous wreck.

‘Of course I’m not ill.’ He stares at me. ‘Why would I be ill?’

‘Because you seem so …’ I trail away desperately.

Because you were hugging Mary. Because you’re hiding something. Because you feel pinned in a corner. Because I don’t know what to think.

I gaze at him silently, willing him to see the words in my eyes. To react. To feel my pain. I thought we were psychic. I thought he would pick up on my every fear and reassure me. But he seems impervious.

‘I’m fine,’ he says shortly. ‘It’s all good. Let’s get some sleep.’

He turns over and within moments he’s breathing the heavy, regular breaths of someone who was so tired, they couldn’t hang about being awake any longer.

But I don’t. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my resolve hardening. Because I know what I’m going to do now. I know exactly what I’m going to do.

Tomorrow I’m going to steal his keys.